Dark Preacher #1: Native Son
by Rogue Knight1
Summary: Young Rev. John Freeman finds himself facing Gotham City's darkness. His gameplan: Meet it head-on.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
  
  
The first time he saw the Batman he was eleven years old, and his daddy was hitting mommy again. He was slapping her for no reason but he was drunk and staggering and she was flinching and sobbing and promising to do better and the window exploded into a thousand shards of sparkling glass that glittered like a thousand crystal prisms and a shadow from hell flew into the room. He watched as the demon kicked daddy across the room into the wall, staring in awe as it grabbed him and beat him with its black fists. He remembered hearing people talk about a man who dressed like a bat and hurt people, but only the ones who deserved it. Like daddy.  
  
The black thing from the pits of hell dropped daddy and he fell limp and heavy on the floor and the thing tied him up with black rope with a metal bat on the end, and turned to mommy, gave her some money and said, in a voice like rocks being crushed, 'This is for the window. I want you to take your son, and go to a shelter tonight. For his sake, if not yours.' And mommy, who was never afraid of anyone except daddy, just nodded, her eyes wide as she scooped him up and soothed him as she packed her bags and went out the door. By the time he looked again, the dark man was gone. He was eleven years old, and he never forgot the Batman, who hurt people who deserved it, and protected people like mommy.  
  
*******************************  
  
That was fifteen years ago, and Batman had just been beginning his career as a vigilante and urban legend. John Freeman had been away from Gotham for a long time now. His mother, finally able to bring herself to leave her husband, for John's sake if not hers, had gone to her grandparents in upstate New York. That was where John had grown up, finished school, went to seminary, and was ordained a minister. Now, he felt an urge to go back, back to where it had begun for him, in the dark city with its Dark Knight. The leadership of his denomination agreed to his request, and he was given an assignment with an inner-city Gotham church that dealt primarily in youth ministry.  
  
John Freeman was tall, handsome in a rather grim way, lean and muscular. He'd been captain of multiple sports teams in high school, and could have been an athlete had he chosen that path. He kept his head shaved, and wore a close-trimmed chin beard. He favored black clothes, which went well with his dark brown skin. He had graduated high school with honors, and his seminary grades were excellent. He was, in short, a superb young man, full of promise. That was one reason for sending him to Gotham, whose darkness had been known to overwhelm preachers with less strength of will. 


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter one  
  
  
Charley McCoy was a big, bald, friendly man who'd been in Gotham all his life. He was to serve as John's mentor and teacher.  
  
"The thing to remember John, is that most of these kids have no hope. No hope, no way out. Gotham's streets are a tomb filled with the living dead as far as they can see. Our job is to give 'em that hope, because once they have that, they can start making their lives a little better." The two of them sat in their tiny chapel, dim and dingy and falling apart before their eyes.  
  
"What is there about this city that makes them that way?" John had asked.  
  
"I don't know. Gotham has always been a grim place. The weather's grim, the architecture's grim, and the people are grim. It's got more per capita crime than any other major city in the U.S., and more nut-jobs like the Joker than anywhere else in the world. The government's corrupt, and everyone knows it."  
  
"What about Batman?"  
  
Charley grinned. "Heard of him, have you? He's here all right, though I've never seen him myself. Sometimes it seems like he's everywhere at once, watching everything that goes down. He's got to be a good-sized legend, nowadays. Folks say he's ten feet tall, breathes fire, flies, has wings and claws, can walk through walls, that kind of thing."  
  
"He's not that big, and he doesn't breathe fire. He might fly, though."  
  
"You've seen Batman?"  
  
"Once. I was just a kid. Came through the twelfth-story window right into our living room, scared the daylights out of me. Probably saved our lives."  
  
Charley nodded thoughtfully, sucking a tooth. "That sounds like the Bat, all right. Say, why'd you come back to Gotham, anyway?"  
  
John thought about it a while. "I guess I just had the call to be here. Guess God just had plans for me in this city."  
  
"Maybe so. Meantime, this place could use a cleaning up before the evening service."  
  
"Get a lot of people for the services?"  
  
"More than you might think. Old folks, a few of the working men and their families. A couple of the street people who come in here for the soup kitchen during the week. Even some of the kids. They aren't all gang members, though too many are."  
  
*******************************  
  
A few weeks later, John got his first real encounter with Gotham's sickness. During the late midweek prayer meeting, when only he and a handful of the faithful were in the church, a group of young hoods came through the door. The five of them couldn't have averaged out at more than thirteen years old, but their knives were sharp, and their eyes had the hardness of practiced killers.  
  
John moved between them and his flock. "May I help you gentlemen?" He asked as calmly as he could.  
  
"Hey, brutha man, juss' stay outa our face. You got any cash in this dump?" The spokesman was a tall, gangly boy, with coal-black skin and kinky dreadlocks. His clothes were denim rags. Behind him, his cohorts, two lanky hispanics who looked like twins, a skinny white kid with a nasty scar on his face, and a couple of small black kids wearing clothes similar to the leader's, murmured assent and moved forward as a mass.  
  
"I can't let you carry weapons in this church. Put down your knives, boys." John's tone was steel-hard. The young thug just laughed.  
  
"Lissen, preacher. My boyz here are going to do whatever the hell they feel like doing, in this church, or out of it, and you can't stop us."  
  
"I can do anything, with God on my side."  
  
"I'll believe that when I see it, preacher."  
  
"You'll see it now." He kicked the switchblade out of the kid's hand, pushed him aside, and disarmed the white boy. The younger black kid was going to pieces, and looked like retreating when he saw one of the hispanics go down. Two still had knives in their hands, and they were the two farthest back. John was unscathed. "I'll say this again, boys. Drop the blades, or get out. People are trying to pray." The little gang turned and ran. John grabbed the leader by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him off his feet.  
  
"You stay, son. What's your name?" His young prisoner snarled incoherently. "Listen, son. Listen good. You're going to leave me and my congregation alone from here on out, and if you ever come back here, do it without your knives. You behave yourself, you're more than welcome."  
  
"Yeah, whatever you say, preacher. Just let me go."  
  
"If I catch word of you acting up like this again, I'm taking you down. Remember that. And remember that I have God on my side." He let the boy go, collected the dropped blades, and returned to his small and frightened flock. 


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two  
  
  
He was working late one night, going over the books, trying to work out how to make ends meet for the little mission with its tiny congregation that needed help, rather than being able to give it, when the kids came back.  
  
This time there were more, at least eight, all of them with blades or makeshift clubs. Their leader kicked the door open and strode into the chapel, a long knife in either hand.  
  
"I told you to leave your knives at home next time you came." John said as he looked up from the account books.  
  
"I don't listen too good. Me and the boys here are gonna take this place apart, and if you try and mess with us again, we'll kill you." John asw the cold flame in the boy's eyes, and believed him. He was a general shamed in front of his army, and now he wanted to get his dignity back.  
  
"I believe you, son. But you aren't touching God's house, not tonight, not ever." He stepped forward, and slipped into a Ninjutsu stance.  
  
"Look at this, guys, bible-thimper here thinks he can fight!" The child who was not a child moved forward, sharp steel ready, and his army, a children's crusade lost and gone horribly wrong, moved around to flank their prey, cut him off from escape. They were out for blood.  
  
"Lord Jesus, I could use some help about now," said John. "If you're inclined to send me some, I'd be much obliged." Leader stepped in and struck with his blades, and John dodged and dropped the boy with a kick to the torso. "Amen."  
  
He was fending off attacks from all sides, trying to keep himself intact without doing too much damage to his attackers. He was strong, fast, and well-trained, but there were too many, and they had tactical superiority. Soon he'd have to stop pulling punches if he wanted to get out of this in one piece.  
  
Like a midnight whirlwind storm came the shadowed figure of the Batman, through the door, and into the melee. By the time he had closed the distance, two of the punks were already dropped by batarangs to the head. He swept into the others with controlled fury and smooth dark grace, bringing the young killers down without compassion, without mercy. He struck hard and fast, and within moments, six more were on the ground.  
  
Another two had evaded Batman, and closed after John. He grabbed the knife arm of the formost one, and broke it. The second had a nail-spiked baseball bat, which he swung with abandon at the preacher, who ducked, caught the weapon on the backswing, and punched it's owner's face in.  
  
All was silence for a moment, as the two men stood surveying each other over the field of battle. John was first to speak.  
  
"Batman. Been a while."  
  
"We've met?"  
  
"Fifteen years ago. We were living down on Jackson Street then. Dad drunk, and beating Mom again for some fool thing, looked near to killing her that time. I was eleven, hiding under a table, hoping he wouldn't start on me again."  
  
Batman nodded his cowled head slightly. "I remember."  
John continued. "You saved us. Mom left Gotham after that, took me with her. Went to school, went to seminary."  
  
"You came back."  
  
"God puts us where he wants us, and I wanted to work here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
John thought about it. "You were there for me, maybe I can be here for someone else. Besides, I've always wanted to see you again. To thank you."  
  
The dark vigilante was motionless as a stone gargoyle. "I do what I do because it needs doing, not for thanks. You took a big risk trying to handle these by yourself. Be more careful." Sirens sounded in the distance. Batman moved as if to leave the church.  
  
"Hey, Batman!" He turned. "Will I be seeing you around?"  
  
"I'll be nearby."  
  
"You know, the church is open to everybody. Stop by sometime." John realized rather suddenly that he was talking to empty air.  
  
*******************************  
  
"It's like this city gets brimstone fumes from hell wafting through it. Makes people crazy." Charley McCoy was musing out loud as the two of them replaced a broken window. The church had been doing fairly well, and John's encounter with the young gang had generated enough respect for him on the streets to keep potential harrassers at bay, but it was still Gotham, and things like this happened.  
  
"Kind of makes you wonder," said John, "What it is about this place. Crime, corruption, more homicidal nuts than Arkham can hold, all running loose in this one spot." He tightened the window's frame, and tested it's security. The new pane was made of plexiglass, hopefully able to withstand future vandalism.  
  
"Lucky thing for this city that we've got Batman and his group."  
  
"Lucky for us, too." John agreed. "He probably saved my life a few weeks back."  
  
Charley nodded. "These kids start early. Vicious by the time they're outa diapers, killers by the time they get into high school. The bunch you started a feud with weren't anything special."  
  
"I was too cocky. Tried to take them all on. Outnumbered, they had weapons, and I was trying not to hurt them. Big mistake on my part."  
  
"I hear you were doing pretty good before Batman showed up."  
  
"I was able to keep them off me for a while. Three or four I might have handled, but a group like that, I'd have had to really hurt 'em to win."  
  
Charley stood, examined the new window, and nodded his satisfaction. "Well, they were trying to kill you. Self-defense is self-defense."  
  
John stood as well. "Maybe so, but I didn't feel right about crippling kids."  
  
"I hear one of 'em had a busted arm."  
  
John looked embarrassed. "I got a little exited, lost control for a second."  
  
The two men went inside, and sat down on one of the pews. Charley looked deep in thought for a while, then spoke.  
  
"Seems to me that, acting in self-defense, and not doing any permanent harm to a fellow trying to knife you, there's nothing to bother your conscience with."  
  
"You're probably right. C'mon, we need to clean up and get ready for the service."  
  
*******************************  
  
That evening's service had a fairly good turnout. About three dozen people showed up, including a few faces John didn't recognize. As he led the small congregation in the singing of an old gospel hymn, his eye was caught by a latecomer entering and sitting in the back row. He was raggedly a raggedly dressed old man whose face was dominated by a scraggly gray beard.  
  
With the musical segment over, Charley got up and preached a short sermon on the importance of hope, one of God's great gifts. Charley was a fairly good speaker, and his message seemed to make an impact on his listeners.  
  
"God made man, and he made man to be free. He made man to be without fear! Now, the world is a pretty scary place sometimes, espescially this part of it (a smattering of amens from the congregation punctuated his speech) but God doesn't want us to give in to that fear. He wants us to conquer it! He wants us to have faith in him, and in his ability to provide. He wants us to love each other, to take care of each other. He wants us, brothers and sisters, to have hope for our future, because it's in His hands. Mankind has made the world pretty grim, and it's hard, sometimes, to see past that, but hope should never die, because as long as you have hope, you have strength!"  
  
At the conclusion of the sermon, John led another hymn, then turned the shabby podium over to Charley, who gave the benediction. At the close of the service, the old man was first to head for the door, but John button-holed him.  
  
"I don't believe I've seen you in here before, sir. You new?" he asked friendlily.  
  
"You might could say that," answered the old man. "Name's John Reilly."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Reilly. Pleasure to see you in church."  
  
"Well," Reilly said, "you did invite me." As his spoke this last, his voice changed, became the rumbling sound of power and authority John had heard twice before in his life.  
  
"Nice getup."  
  
"My working clothes tend to stand out in a crowd." Was that a wink? Had Batman, the Caped Crusader, just winked at him? Impossible.  
  
"Well, it was a pleasure seeing you here, Mr. Reilly. Stop by again sometime."  
  
"I just might do that," he answered.  
  
That night, they found a roll of five hundred-dollar bills in the offering plate. 


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three  
  
  
Juan Lopez was a Santa Priscan immigrant, a burly quiet man who supported his family by working at a nearby warehouse. He was catholic, but that didn't keep him from coming regularly to the little mission church. He was quiet, but kindly, and well-liked among those who knew him, as were his wife, Angela, and their two young children, Enrique and Rosa.  
  
When he returned home from working double-shifts at the warehouse one night to find his house looted, his wife raped to death, and his children's throats slashed, it nearly drove him mad with pain.  
  
John Freeman, humble servant the Most High, minister of the Gospel, stood at the graveside, hand on the broken man's shoulder as Father Torres spoke his words over the three new-dug graves. Tears were in all their eyes.  
  
"Why, Mr. Freeman?" Juan asked later. "Why do such things happen? I come to America to protect my family, to live in peace. Now, they are gone, and I am alone."  
  
"You aren't alone, my friend. I am here, and so is God."  
  
"Yes, you and He are here. Where were the two of you the night my family died? Where was God then?"  
  
John had no answer.  
  
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That night he paced frenetically, muttering prayers through numb lips, tears running over his dark face, shaking occasionally from the sobs that wracked his body at times. Where was God when Juan Lopez lost all he had? Why did this happen? Why, unless God was nothing but a capricious trickster, who toyed with his pawns before crushing them. Hope. McCoy preached hope. Why seek out such self-delusion. This was Gotham City, hell on earth, and no hope was to found here, not for anyone.  
  
No, that's not true. There is some hope. Batman, and his vigilantes. The knights of Gotham, sweeping out of the darkness to save women and children and foolish young preachers from men and boys with murder in their hands. Batman, the dark angel.  
  
Where was Batman when Angela Lopez was raped before the eyes of her bound children? Where was Robin, Batgirl, Nightwing, when unknown hands cut her children's throats before her eyes, as she watched with dying breath?  
  
No, not even Batman could save everyone. And God, having created man, watched him stumble, and had Himself nailed to a chunk of wood like a butterfly on a card, had perhaps decided to let his creatures deal with their own problems as best they could now. Job cries out in anguish, and God replies in sarcasm. Where you on hand when I made this world, Job? Then who are you to criticize? No one. Of God's love, there could be no doubt, but the fact was, he gave men minds and souls so that they could make their own choices, and He would not interfere with men's folly much of the time. That was what other men were for, to do as God would have them do. To protect the innocent.  
  
John Freeman made a decision that night, almost without realizing it. He was God's servant, and these people were his responsibility. Maybe it was time to take that a little more seriously. 


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four  
  
  
The costume was simple. Close-fitting black pants and long-sleeved tunic, light shoes, thin gloves, and a ski mask. On the front and back of his tunic he had added a blood-red cross, and around his neck was a clerical collar. Working clothes.  
  
He moved through the dark streets of the territory he ministered to in the daylight, now double-cursed by the pitchy blackness of Gotham night. He was hunting, seeking for signs of need, screams like those Angela Lopez might have sounded that night, sounds of someone struggling to get away, like his mother, fifteen years ago.  
  
There. Two furtive shadows in the alley nearby. Waiting. Now they moved, grabbed the unfortunate working woman on her way home from a late job at the factory, holding her against the wall and a knife against her throat as they took her purse (perhaps all her worldly wealth in that small handbag) and laughed between themselves as they slapped her. Mother again. And no Batman now.  
  
With a burning rage of righteous anger that such things could be done by fallen man, he came at the two muggers with fire in his eyes and a heavy steel cross in his hand. The first lunged clumsily with his knife, and it needed only a sharp blow from the crossbearing fist to his wrist and his hand opened, sharp steel lying on the hard ground, and a left fist met his face, feel the nose give way and the teeth loosen, and he dropped like a stone. Without compassion. Without mercy. Justice, and the wrath of the Almighty in his hands.  
  
The second fled, purse still in his hands, and the steel cross flew spinning like a silver lightning bolt to strike against his head, and he sank to the trash-strewn pavement moaning.   
  
The Dark Preacher who called himself John Freeman in the daylight bound the two together with the black nylon rope he had bought at the hardware store that afternoon, and left them for the police to find, with crosses marked on their brows in black chalk. The woman, fainted, was carried home, and the next day she found fifty dollars in her wallet, where only five had been last night. There was a note, which read "How much more so will our Heavenly Father care for you."  
  
***************************  
  
For a week the Dark Preacher made himself into a presence, and John Freeman began sleeping late, mornings. On the eighth night, he realized he wasn't alone.  
  
"This is no city for amateurs, Reverend Freeman." Batman seemed to materialize out of, rather than emerge from, the shadows of the alley. "You're endangering yourself, and you endanger others."  
  
"You can't be everywhere, and neither can your band of merry men. I'm doing my job, looking after the people God entrusted me with."  
  
"You're a preacher, not a warrior."  
  
"Is that so? 'Beat your plowshares into swords, and their pruning hooks into spears.'"  
  
"Joel 3:10. Why you? Why now?"  
  
"Because, Batman, I'm needed. People need to hope, and they can't hope if their lives are shattered every time some two-bit sociopath feels like a rampage. That's why we need you. But you can't save everyone, and the ones who don't have you, don't have anyone. I'm no Batman, but I plan on doing all I can to keep my people safe."  
  
There was nothing but silence and darkness for a space. Then the darkness spoke, in a voice like rocks being crushed. "Be on the roof of the Freisner building. Eleven tomorrow."  
  
The Preacher made no answer. He knew that no one was there to listen by now.  
  
****************  
  
John walked up the stairs and onto the roof at the appointed time, and found himself facing no less than three silent, black-caped figures. Batman, flanked on either side by his cohorts, tossed him something. He caught it, surprised at it's weight. It looked like some kind of bizarre miniature speargun, with various buttons on it's matte-black surface.  
  
"That is a de-acceleration line. Robin will instruct in it's use, among other things."  
  
"Hope you're not afraid of heights," remarked the shortest of the three, a dark-haired youth in a red-green-and-black costume, whose black cape, John saw, had a yellow lining.  
  
"Batgirl will be your sparring partner. She will insure you possess and maintain the nessessary fighting skills." The remaining figure, a woman clad in a black costume patterned after Batman's, nodded at him.  
  
"You will be here every night at this time to recieve instruction. They will eventually allow you to help them patrol this area, once they deem you ready." If it had been anyone but Batman, John could have sworn the ebony ghost before him was smiling. "Eventually, if you become competent, I will permit you to operate independently. Remember: My city, my rules." John could only nod in acceptance.  
  
"Welcome to the family," said a grinning Robin.  
  
  
The End (Of the beginning.) 


End file.
